


far from over

by mandadoration



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Begging, Body Worship, Breeding Kink, Clan Leader AU, Clan Leader!Mando, Creampie, F/M, Fingering, Impregnation, Mandalorian AU, No use of y/n, Praise Kink, Reader is a virgin, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23902102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandadoration/pseuds/mandadoration
Summary: Your first time with a Clan Leader is supposed to be a very anticipatory event, so of course you can’t help but feel nervous. But despite the cutthroat attitude Clan Leader Din Djarin has had to adopt to work with Mandalorian politics, he’s (trying to be) gentle with you. (original au by @magichandthing)
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 11
Kudos: 689





	far from over

**Author's Note:**

> mandadoration.tumblr.com

Scared isn’t quite the word you’re looking for. 

Anticipatory? Nervous? High-strung?

Whatever it is, you can’t help but fiddle with the soft furs you’re laying on, tensing and relaxing your grip as Din runs his hands up and down your legs. Your nerves are haywire. Everything feels too much, too fast. Your heart is in your throat, and if it weren’t Din’s grounding grip, you’re sure you would’ve been bouncing your legs in an effort to externalize how you were feeling. You never understood how people were able to just… hide what they were thinking. Sure, Mandalorian had their helmets and you had your social conventions, but you always found a way to externalize it, whether it be picking at your nails or pacing or--

“Relax,” he soothes. His hands are bare, coarse and rough against the otherwise smoother skin of your leg, but his helmet is still on. It makes you a little nervous knowing that you can’t quite tell what he’s thinking, but it’s sweet to see him trying to calm you down. It helps a little, you suppose, knowing that this feared and respected clan leader was making the effort to make sure you’re relaxed. He doesn’t show this side often, you know, instead favoring the stoic, almost scary mask he puts on to make sure power-hungry people stay in line and know their place. 

He’s always been soft with you. Eager, yes, his touches burn and always leave you wanting more despite how he tells you to wait, to be patient and always “be a good girl”, but he’s still _soft_. Din shows it in how he brings trinkets for the younglings and small tokens and gifts for his wives whenever he goes off-world, bringing back stories that he reluctantly tells in order to convince too-rowdy children to go to bed. But still, you’ve seen his firmer hand, that non-argumentative tone that demands to be listened to. 

Just not to you. 

Perhaps it’s because he knows you’ve always been scared of him to some degree. Treading ever-so carefully around him, looking to the older, more seasoned wives to see what you should be doing, how you’re reluctant to accept gifts-- you’ve just never been fully comfortable around him. You hope everytime he doesn’t get offended by it, no matter how many times others reassure you. But doubt still lingers. It’s just that Din is so… unflappable, sometimes to the point you really wonder if he’s human, if there’s some other aspect that let’s him keep going and pushing forward despite the complexities of Mandalorian politics and dealing with his clan. It’s admirable, really, you respect him and he’s so deserving of the sway he holds, but the line between fear and respect is blurred. You think that if you were in his place, you would’ve crumpled under the weight and responsibility.

You’ve been so stuck in your head that you don’t even realize how Din gently pulled you to the edge of the bed, slowly unlacing the bodice of your gown in slow, delicate movements that’s almost unbecoming of him. It’s a beautiful thing, specially made for this moment, carefully sewn and dyed by the elder wives in Djarin Clan colors, with your previous clan’s colors accented throughout. But now it seems too hot, too coarse and too stifling. _Too, too, too_. That seems to be the theme for tonight. You let out a sigh of relief when the dress loosens. Even if it wasn’t that tight to begin with, you breathe a little easier. 

“Where did you go?” Din asks you, when your eyes finally focus on the reflective beskar of his helmet. His hands are still running over you. You blink. 

“Huh?”

He lets out a short huff of laughter, and runs his thumb over your collarbone, pushing your gown to the sides to expose your chest. You’re so caught off guard that you can’t even feel shy about it. What did he mean by, _Where did you go?_ Din wasn’t really the one to be cryptic, more so blunt and straight-forward. “You always seem to… go somewhere.” He reaches up to brush a strand of hair out of your face before going back to brush his hands over you. “When you think.” 

“Oh.” You nibble on your bottom lip, and you think you taste blood. Was… was that a bad thing? You weren’t aware you did that. Then again, you weren’t exactly scrutinized a whole lot. “Sorry,” you say after a moment. Mando pauses in his slow caress, then reaches up to pull your lip from between your teeth. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he says firmly, and there’s that tone that leaves no room for argument. It doesn’t cow you as much as you thought it would. Din runs his hands down your throat, and you wonder if he can feel how your pulse flutters against him. “I was just… I just noticed.” 

His hands are warm and a comfortable weight against you, but you can’t help but tense. 

“You can say what’s on your mind, sweet girl,” Din murmurs after a moment. He cradles the back of your head to lift you up slightly off the bed, and starts sliding your clothes off of you. Automatically, you move to help him, pulling your arms out of the sleeves as you consider what exactly to tell him. There’s nothing to say that’s of substance, just random thoughts and reminiscing that’s probably inappropriate to bring up now. Should you make something up? If you did, you’re sure that Din would know. That wouldn’t fare well for you. 

You catch your nervous and flushed expression in the reflection of his beskar. 

No, Din would most definitely know if you were trying to say something for propriety's sake. You don’t get to be a clan leader by buying the lies of every pretty face that looks your way.

The heel of your foot brushes against the coarse leather of his pants. “Do you…” He gently sets you back down against the soft furs, tenderly. “Do you want to, um, get comfortable?” you ask nervously. You hate how your voice shakes when you ask. The Djarin Clan favors strength in the face of adversity, courage and the warrior’s spirit, and everyday you think you are woefully unfit for this arrangement. Here you are, trembling under Din, nervous to even ask if he wants to undress himself before he fucks you. “If you don’t want to, um, that’s okay. I just--” Din pulls away for a moment, and at first you think you’ve said the wrong thing, that he’ll say, _nevermind_ , and leave you here, but then he pats your knee before unstrapping the pauldrons off of him, takes off his mudhorn belt, and unlaces his boots before pulling them off. His ornamental wear has long since been discarded, and you realize how _naked_ he looks without them. You’re used to seeing him decked out to show his status, show off the position he’s earned blood, sweat, and tears. An odd feeling rises deep in your chest when that revelation _really_ hits you. Just how often does he show himself like this? Not often, you imagine. Power is everything here, but you have to earn it, and not everyone gets to survive the scrabble up to the top. 

The helmet stays on, but you don’t press him. It’s an honor that he even entertained your whims. 

He comes closer to the edge of the bed, and for the first time that night, _you_ reach out for _him_. You’re not quite sure what possesses you to do so, but you go through the motions before you can think a little too hard about it and lose your nerve. You run your hands over his scarred chest, hands still wracked with tremors, and wrap your legs around his waist and pull him flush against you. You can feel his length against your naked heat, half hard as he involuntarily grinds up against the apex of your thighs. “Good girl,” he breathes. 

Din reaches forward to touch you, seemingly enraptured at the softest parts of you. His hands are insistent, but still gentle as he pinches and rolls your nipples between his fingers until you squirm, raking his blunt nails down your belly until he can squeeze your thighs. Din seems determined to not stray his focus from each individual part until you moan, and he seems especially pleased when you let out a high whine at a particularly hard squeeze on your hips. The entire time, you’re rolling your hips against his, and with each passing moment, Din seems to get closer until he’s looming over you and has to brace his arm by your head. 

Again, there’s that question of just how often he gets to enjoy himself. As much as you think that _you_ should be the one making _him_ feel good, there’s no denying that he gets some sort of pleasure and satisfaction from exploring your body like this. You aren’t his first, you know that much. The younglings running up and down the halls and being bounced in their mothers’ arms tell that much. But it still feels like it’s his first time, as if he’s never seen a naked figure before, like he’s never touched a body so reverently, with such appreciation that it borders worship. 

By the time he finally stops his exploration, you’re panting, face flushed more than before, and sweat beads at your hairline. Neither of you move for a while, just staring at each other while you contemplate whether or not you should do something, and an idea, half-formed and barely coherent, runs through your head, and before you can stop yourself, you lean up to press a gentle kiss where his mouth would be, careful to avoid the horns inlaid on the sides. You feel him tense up and an apology is already waiting at your lips when he tilts his head forward until his helmet touches your forehead. Again. Soft. Gentle. Careful, even. 

“Din…” you murmur, and then your breath hitches when he finally swipes his fingers over your cunt. It’s almost unexpected. You involuntarily cant your hips up, reaching up to put your arms around his neck, looking down at where Din was teasing, him giving you nothing but soft swipes to your clit that don’t do much but wind you up further. 

“Is this all for me?” he asks you, voice low and thick with arousal, and the quality of his voice makes your thighs shake. He takes two fingers, and plays with your blushed hole, teasing the entrance, but never quite _there_ , instead smearing your wetness around, pressing, but never breaching. You give him a nod, and you can feel tears welling up in your eyes from how bad you want it. You hadn’t realized how wound up, how tense you were. When did that anxiety truly turn into want? “Beautiful girl… All wet and wanting,” he coos. At each phrase, you clench, that hot fire in your belly rising with his praise. He reaches back to unhook your legs from his waist, and leans back enough to guide you further up the bed. He crawls up after you, and sits between your legs, admiring at how your cunt glistens in the low light. “Just for me,” Din breathes, then he sinks two of his fingers into you, thick and rough, and you _wail_ , “just for me.” 

You arch your back, and you feel your face burn. From a combination of being filled, even with just fingers, and the appreciative tone you’ve never quite heard from him before. You know Din’s gaze never drifts from your face; he doesn’t need to see what he’s doing, but he keeps his other hand on your knee to keep yourself spread open for him. He barely has to use his strength to make sure he gets an eyeful. You’re pitifully weak against him, so you use your words instead. “Please,” you gasp out. “Din, I-- Please, I just--” 

“I know,” Din soothes. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says carefully, as if he were one wrong move away from scaring you away like a skittish fathier. He knows you’re impatient, but _he_ has the patience to make up for it. Maker knows what would’ve happened if you were saddled with the Vizla clan instead. You’ve heard unsavory things about their Clan Leader. 

You focus your vision at where his fingers keep disappearing into you, and every time he draws them, dragging his fingers against your walls, they come back wetter than before. When he slips in a third finger, you gasp, and throw your head back, moaning as he stretches you open. Surely at this point he was doing this to torture you. To keep going so, so slow as he murmurs praises under his breath, almost absentmindedly, and caressing the soft skin of your inner thigh before that comforting, grounding grip leaves you. But you don’t notice. You don’t notice because the coarse pad of his thumb swipes against your clit, and you _keen_. It's a high, desperate sound you’re not quite sure you’ve made before, not even when you’ve touched yourself in the dead of night, in those stolen moments when you had time to yourself and no responsibility to take care of. Nothing ever compared to this, and you doubt anything _will_. And all this was without actually seeing the debauched things he was doing to you. 

Part of you is scared to look. Because if you do, something deep, _deep_ in you, ugly and feral, will rear its head. But then you hear soft noises from him, noises that feel like liquid fire going through your veins even with the barrier of his helmet, and it’s like something is tugging at you at the back of your mind, urging you to just sneak a glance, to indulge yourself more than you already are. 

When you finally look back down, you bear to tear your eyes away because you realize at some point that Din had unlaced his pants, and you clench around him when you see that he’s stroking himself in tandem with each thrust and press and crook of his fingers. He’s thick, head flushed at the tip and weeping with precum, fist in a loose grip. Din notices where your gaze has landed, because of course he does, and he doubles his efforts, swiping his thumb up against your clit with every thrust in of his fingers. The pleasure curls tighter deep in your belly. 

It’s a little _too_ good. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” you gasp, curling up so you can grab his wrist to stop him. He immediately freezes, but the hand around his cock is a little slower to stop. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, and withdraws his fingers and lets go of his cock to grab your upper arms. You nod, and try to catch your breath before you finally get enough of a hold on your senses to talk to him. You don’t mind that your slick is getting on your arm. 

“I didn’t want to cum yet,” you admit, almost shyly. Oh kriff. Did that seem rude? You quickly open your mouth to interject him before he can say anything. “I want to cum with you inside me,” you say hastily, and then you flush redder with how depraved that sounded. If only you had thought about your words before thinking them. 

And that’s when Din makes an almost _pained_ noise. 

He shifts so that his hands are holding your legs up, movements tight with tension, and runs his thumbs running over the sensitive skin behind your knee. “Maker,” he groans, and your ears burn when that low timbre of his voice hits your ears, “you’re too good to me.” 

And then he’s pressing in, in, in, and you’re gasping, fisting the sheets and blankets underneath you, and you fully, _completely_ understand why he wanted to make sure you were ready. You’re not quite sure if you’ve ever felt this kind of fullness before. A part of you wants to squirm away, but you also want to spear yourself further on his cock. 

Din’s voice is tight when he finally speaks up. “Are you… Are you okay?” 

To be honest, you’ve never been better, but you’re winded and gasping for breath as Din is pressing against something _wonderful_ in you, and the most you can do is nod and dig your nails into his forearms. He takes that as a sign that he can finally start moving, and you can feel how wound up with tension he is, how much he’s holding back for your sake. Din is slow for the first drag out, sinking back in even slower as your walls cling to him, but then before you know it, he’s slamming into you because you feel so warm, so wet, and so, so good for him. Each sharp snap of his hips punches out a breathless moan from you. 

Din puts your legs over his shoulders, and leans in, ceaseless in his thrusts, and you take advantage of that, nuzzling your way under the base of his helmet, mindful of his horns, to press kisses to him because that’s the closest to his mouth you think you’re going to get. “I wish I could, _ah_ , kiss you,” you gasp out, too mindless and overwhelmed with beautiful pressure to rethink or fuss about what you’re saying. “Din, _Din_ \--”

And maybe it’s the way you call his name so sweetly or the way you seem to worm your way into people’s affections so easily, but he snatches up your discarded gown and tears off a strip of fabric, and you hardly care because you’re hopeful and know you could always get another, and he’s tying it over your eyes, all the while still inside you. 

“Can you see?” Din asks. You shake your head. With your vision gone, all your other senses are notched up, and your toes curl. Your hope is not misplaced because the next thing you know, you hear a clank, and then he’s pressing his lips against you. You moan, and try to bring him closer, licking eagerly into his warm mouth

He’s fucking you in earnest now while your arms are hooked around his neck. One of his hands is gripping the back of your neck, tilting your head to better slot his lips against yours, and the other groping your breast. With you so eager, clawing at him in an effort to try and express the sheer pleasure that was rocking through your body, Din is no longer so gentle with you. The tears that have been welling up in your eyes finally spill over, the pleasure almost too much and not enough at the same time. 

“What do you need, sweet girl?” he pants out. “Tell me.”

“I just… please touch me,” you beg, “I’m so close, I--” Din’s fingers dip into your mouth, and you suck on them eagerly, coating them in saliva before he pops them out of your mouth to rub your clit in fast, tight circles. The whimper that forces itself from your throat is pathetic, but Din seems to revel in any and all sounds you make. You’re sure that tears are soaking the fabric of your blindfold, and even more so when Din sinks his teeth in the soft juncture of your neck. 

And then you’re cumming, surely drawing blood from how hard you’re digging your nails into his skin, and he follows soon thereafter, hunching over and groaning low in your ear as he cums in you. His voice blissfully low, better unhindered by the helmet. You give soft mewls and moans, clenching around him as you milk his cock, curling your toes into the furs underneath you as the shakes and tremors work themselves through your body. When you finally come down enough that you don’t feel as lightheaded, you notice how Din has been petting your hairline in jerky, but still ever-so soft movements you don’t think he knows he’s doing. 

Eventually, Din pulls back, slipping out of you with a wet squelch, and you hear a sudden intake of breath, alongside a feeling of a burning gaze.

You know he’s looking at you. 

Or rather, a certain _part_ of you. 

Despite how exposed you feel, just panting and boneless against the sheets, you fight the urge to clamp your legs shut. Din’s silence makes you nervous, but then you feel the barest brush of fingers against your swollen pussy, dipping down to swipe up the leaking cum from your hole to press it back in. His fingers twitch against you when you whimper again. 

“Should we… should we take a bath?” you ask him timidly. You hear him pause. 

And Din has the audacity to laugh, and you wish he would let you see his face. It’s not mean or condescending, more so genuine surprise, warm and rich, like he was caught off guard. You jolt when his hand rests on your inner thigh, and _squeezes_. 

“Sweet girl…” he murmurs, and you feel your pulse skyrocket at the tone of his voice, “What made you think we were done?”


End file.
